"Of course, I would never ever want to take your job away from you. Then again, everyone knows you're going to be pro—"
She slapped a hand over her mouth, apparently realizing she was about to say too much. Her eyes widened comically.
"—Oh no! I wasn't supposed to say a word. Not to anyone."
She fell silent.
Funny, but an hour ago that news would have made me the happiest woman in the world. To realize that I was about to achieve the Year Six goal from the master plan. To know that I had overcome the adversity of Jawbreaker's Barnard-bias and the KYs' conniving.
But an hour can make a huge different in a person.
In an hour I had decided to quit the job I had no love for. I had learned that maybe the KYs are more than what they seem. And I had learned that maybe, just maybe, my obsession with candy was more than a harmless fascination.
How could a person's life change so quickly?
"It's okay, Kelly," I soothed, trying to calm that horrified look off her face. "It doesn't matter anyway. When we get back from Milan, I'm quitting."
"No, no, no. You can't quit. Why would you quit?"
"To finally do something I love." It sounded like the simplest answer in the world. Maybe it was. "I've never loved the business side of fashion the way you do. I want to design full-time."
Though there was a tinge of sadness in her voice, she congratulated me. "Everyone should get the chance to do something they really love." Her whole person brightened. "And I'm sure Ferrero will use your pieces in every collection. He just raves about your work."
I felt the beginnings of a blush heat my cheeks. "Yes, well, we'll see." I stood, grabbed her briefcase off the floor, and urged her to her feet. "You'd better get back to work if you want to be ready to do my job in two weeks."
She protested all the way to the door, insisting that she could at least stay to finish our chat. But I wanted to be alone with all the thoughts sloshing around in my head.
Besides, after a year of conflict, I was not quite prepared to bond with KY Kelly. Things can't change that fast.
I got her out into the hall, briefcase in hand, and was just about to shut the door when she shoved her foot in the way.
"Before I go," she panted, struggling against the weight of the door, "I just wanted to tell you that there isn't anything going on with me and Gavin. We're friends, that's all."
I scowled and pushed harder on the door. "Great. Thanks."
"The only woman he ever talks about," she added as the door closed on her flawless face, "is you."
The door clicked shut. Turning, I leaned my whole weight against it, sliding to the floor as my legs gave way.
Gavin talks about me.
As if I needed more life-altering news today.
"Good morning, dear."
Mom's cheerful voice was more pep than I was ready for at five o'clock on a Tuesday morning. Or any morning for that matter.
I mumbled something like
mermig
, hoping she would accept the slurred greeting, and tried desperately to get back into the dream where I was on a desert island with no one but a devoted cabana boy and an endless supply of Lemon Drops and coconut-scented suntan lotion.
"We're on the boat now. Your father insists we leave right at sunrise." She paused—perhaps noticing that I was not participating. She probably thought I fell back asleep. No such luck. "Lydia, dear, your father and I are setting sail in half an hour. The least you could do is wake up and tell us goodbye."
I bolted up in bed—knocking Dyllie off my chest and onto the floor with a squeak—instantly alert. In my whole life I had never heard Mom speak so sharply. To anyone, let alone me.
"I'm awake," I defended. "Of course I'm awake. You're leaving and I'm saying goodbye."
Silence.
"Mom," I ventured, "is everything okay? Are
you
okay?"
"Perfectly. Why wouldn't I be?" She sounded like the same, cheerful, never-upset-unless-she's-worried-about-me mom, but there had been no mistaking the tightness in her voice just seconds earlier. "I was just getting your attention."
For some reason—call it unexplainable daughter's intuition—I knew it was more than that.
I heard a muffled shout in the background about hoisting something and tying off something else. Sounded like Dad was really getting into the sailing thing. If they were about to sail around the world, then I guessed that was a good thing.
"I have to go," Mom stated, her words sounding distracted. "The deck hand just arrived."
If I didn't know better, I'd have thought she was grinding her teeth. That worried me.
"Okay, Mom. Do you want to give me a call before you—"
The drone of a dial tone buzzed in my ear as the call cut off. Mom had hung up on me. Now I knew something was up.
"Have you packed?" Fiona asked, reclining on my couch as I recounted the events of the past few days.
There was a lot to catch up on.
"For Milan? Not yet. We don't leave until Friday." I heard her
mm-hmm
around the piece of chocolate on her tongue.
When Fi showed up at my door with a 16-piece box of Vosges gourmet truffles I knew she'd had a tough day. Nothing but the roughest of days could induce her to bring out the big guns. And, although chocolate was not my personal favorite—if it's not gummied, sugared, sour, or caramelized, it's not really for me—we shared this indulgence once every black and blue moon.
Selecting a chili pepper truffle from the box, I leaned back into the chofa and bit into the sweet and spicy ball.
"Do you know what you're taking?" she asked when she had absorbed her first truffle.
"Huh-uh. Haven't even thought about it."
Too busy thinking about my life’s drastic change of direction. A change I still hadn't told Fiona about. Not for any particular reason—I just needed to ruminate on it a little more before I sent out the press release.
"Think about it now," she suggested. "Let's have a look at your wardrobe."
Fi was on her feet and heading through my bedroom door before I could answer. Slowly rising, I replaced the lid on the truffles box so Dyllie wouldn't get interested, and followed to my room.
Half my closet was draped across the bed. The half in the back that I was too chicken to wear.
"I am
not
taking any of that!"
"You have been hiding behind your Ann Taylor's and Liz Claiborne's for too long, sister. You have the perfect body to pull all these off. All you need is a little confidence."
I looked down at my scrawny self. Flat chest. Chicken legs. Protruding collarbone. My body was not perfect for anything. Hence the carefully concealing layers of Ann and Liz.
"These clothes," she added, holding up white eyelet Tocca sundress, "were designed for models with your figure."
"You mean your figure," I countered. Fiona had the perfect body: tall, lean but shapely, full-breasted. I had always envied her that.
And she had the fashion sense to show it all off. Right now she wore a red cashmere v-neck sweater that accentuated and displayed her pushed-up chest and a skintight black pencil skirt that molded her hips into seductive curves.
Only her face didn't fit the package. She looked exasperated that I would even argue this point. Without hesitation she pulled off her sweater, peeled off the skirt and tugged the sundress over her head.
Though we wear the same size, the dress stretched way-too-tight across her hips and chest. Her pushed-up breasts were pushed even more into view, nearly cut in half by the low v-neck of the dress.
"So one dress doesn't fit," I conceded. I held up my gunmetal gray Calvin Klein, knowing it would look better on her. "Try this one."
After struggling out of the tight cotton sundress, Fiona slipped into the slinky number. Like the sundress, this dress stretched tighter across the hips than it should, and her ample breasts pushed out on the panels of the halter top, leaving a gaping view of her bra and abdomen.
"Okay, so two dresses—"
"No," she interrupted, passionate in her argument. "All dresses. There isn't a single dress in my closet that hasn't been professionally altered to fit my figure. I probably spend as much on tailoring as I do on clothes. Maybe more. So trust me when I tell you,
these clothes were designed for you
."
Shocked, I stared at her like she had sprouted Sour Straws for hair. A candy-haired medusa.
"Really?" I finally ventured when I could speak.
Fi rolled her eyes dramatically before slinking out of the Calvin Klein and pulling her clothes back on. "Not that I would trade figures with you for anything—I happen to enjoy my full C-cups, thank you very much—but yours is the body type gracing all the runways and magazine spreads. So shove your poor body image into the garbage disposal and let's pack you a wowser wardrobe for Milan."
My courage bolstered, I headed for the closet and dug into the way back. "And this," I said, finding the hanger and lifting it off the bar, "is the first thing in."
Holding the strapless minidress up to my chest, I faced Fiona. Every golden bead and sequin sparkled in the bright light of my room.
Her beaming grin said everything.
I hung the dress on the valet hook next to my closet and reached for the silver-gray shoe box on the top shelf. "I even have a pair of killer heels to match."
Beneath the lid were 4-inch gold strappy Versace sandals a la Liz Hurley.
"You wear that outfit around any guy with eyes and you won't be wearing it very long." Fiona grinned when I threw a wad of tissue at her. Which only made her goad me more. "Better wax up that zipper."
I was just about to forget the six-hundred dollar price tag and fling a shoe at her when the buzzer sounded.
And a good thing, too. That was six-hundred per shoe.
18
Q: When can an ant not be an ant?
A: When it's an uncle.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #120
"You may not quit."
Ferrero threw up his arms and marched into my apartment without preamble.
"Won't you come in," I offered to his back.
He whirled around on me as I closed the door. "A muse," he boomed, "cannot quit being a muse."
I sighed. Clearly Kelly had no sense of the sisterhood's bonds of silence. She probably called six people before she even left my building. And, though I doubted she called Ferrero herself, someone—with hip-length platinum hair and a heavy hand with the eyeliner—had shared the news with him.
He looked tired.
Fashion week was always stressful for him, and I had heard there were problems with suppliers and an embargo on a tiny Eastern European country that exported handmade glass beads. Top it off with the news that I was quitting and no wonder he appeared on my doorstep looking haggard and ordering me not to quit.
"I'm no—"
"Once a muse commits to being a muse," he continued, pacing nervously on my living room rug, "she must be a muse until the artist is no longer inspired by her."
"But I'm no—"
"It is an unwritten agreement. A verbal contract." Stopping in the center of the rug, Ferrero faced me with a determined set to his jaw. "I could sue you."
"Franco!" I shouted, finally getting his attention. "I'm not resigning as muse. Only as sales executive. I'll be your muse as long as you want me."
He was struck frozen for the space of two seconds before his lips spread into a beaming, cosmetically-whitened smile.
A yip from the direction of my bedroom drew my attention to Fiona standing in the doorway. From the scowl on her face I knew she had heard everything—and wondered why she hadn't heard this from me first.
Straightening her spine, she pasted on her own brilliant smile and strode into the room like she owned the place.
"I don't think we've met." She extended a hand to Ferrero. "I'm Fiona, a friend of Lydia's."
Oh yeah, that should clear things up, since Ferrero still didn't know my name. Still, he took her hand, lifting it to press a gentlemanly kiss on her knuckles.
"Miss Vanderwalk is an inspiration. And you," he said, lowering but not releasing her hand, "are a vision."
Fiona smiled politely, but lacking genuine warmth. She was well-versed with the social platitudes of the world of fashion. It was often her job to smooth the feathers of designer and model alike at a show-gone-bad.
"Thank you, Ferrero," she replied, and when he began to correct her she added, "Franco. You are very kind to say so."
Even though I had told her of Ferrero's Jersey "outing" she knew we stilled played the game. Frankie Ferris would stay buried in the annals of the high school yearbook.
Ferrero, adequately bolstered, turned his attention back on me. From the look on his face—one of bleak desperation and abject determination—I had a feeling he was not satisfied with my concession.